


like ships in the night

by shirozora



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, quest: last resort of good men, sort-of character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:08:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He plans to get by with smiles and casual flirting, for his sake more than anything, and the Inquisitor seems to be on board with it. </p><p>Nobody else is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like ships in the night

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this and posting it on Tumblr to help me slowly pick through my feelings on Dorian's personal quest. That entire thing was raw as fuck, but only because I managed to pick all the dialogue choices that ended up punching me in the gut in that horrible "been there, experienced that" way.

“You should say something.”

He flinches and tears his eyes away from where Trevelyan disappeared down the stairs to bother Solas - “Can you _please_ stop,” Solas said the third time Trevelyan landed on his desk and made a very happy noise that echoed up to the rookery - to the former Grand Enchanter. Cocking an eyebrow, he asks, “Say what?”

Fiona smiles indulgently. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually,” Dorian says. He realizes a second too late how defensive he sounds but the only one within hearing and caring range is the mage and that’s still one pair of ears too many. “It’s none of your business.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees. “But, I think you should say something.”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. But he has been in the south long enough and something cracks, a little fissure in his facade. “I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s… not the easiest person to read.”

“True of anyone thrust into a role they weren’t looking for,” Fiona says, sounding a touch wistful. “But you should see the way he lights up whenever he comes to the library.”

“Must be the books,” Dorian says. “Who doesn’t love a good story?”

She shakes her head and walks away, leaving him to wonder if he gained or lost something from the conversation. He goes to the rail and leans on it, looks down to where Solas and Trevelyan are deep in discussion over some tattered scrolls. 

“She’s right, you know,” Leliana’s voice says over his right shoulder, and he groans and hangs his head.

“Really?” 

“Really.” The spymaster then mutters something like, “And I thought Alistair was bad.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Leliana leans over and calls out, “Inquisitor, Harding reported in. Cullen’s on his way to the War Room.”

“What? Already?” Trevelyan tries and fails to hide a yawn while pushing off of Solas’s desk, leaving Solas to sigh and reshuffle the scrolls. “I’ll see you there, then.”

Leliana nods and leaves, but Trevelyan doesn’t follow suit. Instead he looks up at Dorian and waves with his left hand, palm flashing a crack of eerie green, before turning on his heels and leaving Solas’s abode. Solas looks up sharply and Dorian retreats to his alcove. He grabs the nearest book, a thick dusty tome on Chantry history, and sits, opens it, and stares blankly at the words on the yellowing pages for a long time.

* * *

They’re talking about the color of the night sky and Vivienne’s wish to furnish Skyhold with draperies in that deep blue-black hue. Dorian stands several paces away, rocking back and forth on the cool sandy ground and watching august rams watch them. He listens to Trevelyan’s voice, feels something inside him twist and curl every time the Inquisitor chuckles at something Vivenne says.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” the Iron Bull suddenly says. “ _Too_ quiet.”

He scoffs. “Even I can take the time to quietly appreciate the Hissing Wastes for what it is - sand, sand, and more sand. Plus mountains. Spiders. Those nasty two-legged lizards. Red Templars. Venatori.”

“Sure, I believe you.”

Dorian waits for the Qunari to say more or to walk away, but he doesn’t. He just stands next to Dorian, making him increasingly uncomfortable.

“Fine,” Dorian says. “Clearly, you miss my clever wit. Shall I start with the banter or you?”

“Oh no, not with me,” the Iron Bull says. “I can listen to you wax poetic all night long but I’m not who you have in mind.”

He freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Figured you’d say that.” The Iron Bull looks over his head and Dorian follows his gaze, turning halfway around to see Trevelyan watching them curiously. “Hey, Boss.”

“Not plotting something devious, I hope?” Vivenne asks.

“No, ma’am,” the Iron Bull says cheekily. “Not at all.”

“He wanted to pitch Sera into battle once,” Trevelyan says, grey eyes sparking bright with amusement. “Because it would cause ‘mayhem’.”

“I still stand by it,” the Iron Bull says. “Maybe I should throw you at a Red Templar. Would give them a right scare.”

Trevelyan laughs. “Maybe next time, Bull. I think we should head back to camp. I got sand everywhere and it’s getting incredibly uncomfortable.”

“By ‘sand everywhere’ do you mean-”

Vivienne makes a disgusted noise and marches ahead, followed by the Iron Bull’s loud laughter. Trevelyan grins at Dorian, says, “I can’t imagine you having no complaints about this place.”

“On the contrary,” he says, “I have plenty of things to say about this infernal desert. I found sand _inside my bedroll_. How does it even get in there? And try stepping on ram droppings as soon as you get out of your tent. I need a new pair of boots when we get back….”

* * *

The day after they get back to Skyhold, Dorian spots Mother Giselle pulling Trevelyan aside while heading up the stairs to his alcove. He sees her slip a piece of paper into Trevelyan’s hands and wonders what she’s up to. By the time he settles into his armchair, he forgets the moment.

Hours tick by. He reads and skims through two books, and picks at Helisma’s brain until the Tranquil firmly says that she has research to do on behalf of the Inquisition. He leans on the railing and contemplates the alarming shine of Solas’s head. He avoids attracting the former Grand Enchanter’s attention as much as he can and darts into his alcove when he sees the spymaster coming down the stairs from the rookery.

He browses for something quaint and Ferelden when he hears Trevelyan’s voice, and cocks his head in its direction. The man is talking to Helisma, probably asking what she found from her research into the templars’ weapons and armor. Then footsteps approach and Dorian turns to see Trevelyan standing a few feet away, looking uneasy.

“Something on your mind?” he asks. “If you’re here to pick my brain some more-”

“Dorian,” Trevelyan says and hesitates. Something is off with his tone and his face, and Dorian takes a step forward. “Mother Giselle gave me a letter from your father.”

* * *

Everything goes south, literally and figuratively.

* * *

The journey back to Skyhold is a quiet one. Bandits and Red Templar camps tend to get in the way but this time their only interruption is inclement weather. That’s what he remembers, anyway. 

“I haven’t heard some smart-ass comment from him in _days_ ,” Varric says at one point. “That’s just wrong.”

Trevelyan doesn’t tell him, Cassandra, or anybody else what happened in the Gull and Lantern, for which Dorian is grateful. Some matters aren’t meant to be shared with everyone.

He wonders if Trevelyan _should_ have been there. He told them both that Trevelyan was there as witness, to see and to hear, but wasn’t that a selfish thing to do? This was a matter for the Pavus family alone so he should have dealt with it alone, contained the family matter to just the two of them. But seeing his father just reminded him of what he wanted and couldn’t have, what ultimate betrayal looked like, and he nearly broke. What would he have done if Trevelyan wasn’t with him?

“Dorian.” 

Thoughts banish at the sound of Trevelyan’s voice and he looks up to find the man holding out a bowl of… something. Right. They’re settling down for the night and he’d been sitting and staring at the fire after valiantly trying to pitch a tent. 

“Edible, I hope?” he asks lightly but the words come out strained. 

Trevelyan shrugs. “No complaints so far.”

“Probably because nobody wants to offend Your Worship,” he says, taking the offered bowl. “Wait. You made this?”

“I _can_ cook. Just that nobody at Skyhold lets me.” Trevelyan slowly sits down on the cut log next to him. “My brothers and sisters thought to teach me when I decided to join the Templar Order in Ostwick.”

“You don’t say.” From what he gathered, templars tend not to support mages as strongly as Trevelyan does. 

“It was either that or take some vows and become a cleric. Younger Trevelyans get a choice between joining the clergy and the Order.”

“But you’re not a templar.” Dorian tests the stew. It tastes nothing like heavy-handed Ferelden cooking. “You certainly don’t act like one.”

“I kept stalling and by the time I made my decision, the rebellion turned into war. Then I got sent south for the conclave and, well.” Trevelyan holds up his left hand, palm up. The Anchor glows faintly, eerily. “I don’t mind, you know. I never really cared for the Chantry.”

Dorian snorts, thinking about all the people who call the man “Herald of Andraste”. “I can’t imagine how devout Andrastians would react if they heard you say that.”

“That’ll be something.” Trevelyan looks at the bowl in his hands. “You should eat that before it gets cold.”

They don’t talk while he eats and watches the rest of the camp move around them. Cassandra is nowhere in sight, so he assumes she’d gone on patrol with some of the soldiers. Varric sits by another campfire with a stack of paper and a quill in hand; he wonders if the dwarf is writing more of that book he spotted Cassandra reading once. The requisitions officer has her own stack of paper to sort through and the other soldiers mill about the fire pits and tents nearby, mending equipment and passing around flasks and small talk.

He sets the empty bowl and spoon on the ground near his feet and clears his throat, drawing Trevelyan’s attention away from the Anchor. “I… have a question.”

“I thought it’s usually the other way around?” Trevelyan says. “What is it?”

“You make a habit of always looking to compromise. I’m fairly certain the one time you didn’t and made enemies was when you chose to ally with the rebel mages. Otherwise, you’re reasonably nonjudgmental. But at the tavern, you wouldn’t give him a chance. Why?”

Trevelyan stares at the fire, looking torn over what to say. Then the man turns to him with steely eyes and says, “You said he tried to use blood magic on you. He wanted what was best for you and I understand that sentiment, but blood magic? That was - what parent would do that? To their own child?” 

Dorian clenches his hands tightly, if only to hold the vicious storm inside him. “Behind closed doors, Tevinter allows for many things.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I’ve seen and heard of worse-”

“I’m not talking about other people. Other families. I’m talking about _you_.” And it hurts, it really does, to have Trevelyan’s full attention on him, to hear the fury and force of the Free Marcher’s anger on his behalf. “What he did still hurts you. How could I suggest you keep talking to him, make amends? I don’t think you’re anywhere near ready to do that.”

The camp is eerily quietly outside the crackling fire and Trevelyan’s heavy breathing. Dorian glances around and, as if on cue, the camp comes back to life. Trevelyan notices as well and covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place. We’ll - we’ll talk later.”

He gets up hastily and retreats, heading straight to Varric. Dorian swears the dwarf says, “Nightingale was totally right.”

Dorian considers requisitioning several flasks of something strong to knock him out for the night. Instead he remains sitting in front of the fire for several more hours, ignoring the flicker of hope and doubt deep inside him.

* * *

Once, he would have scoffed at the thought of considering an enormous ruin of a drafty fortress high up in the mountains a “home”, but now the sight of Skyhold fills him with relief whenever he returns from some uncultured corner of southern Thedas. There is nothing as welcoming as the prospect of passing through the welcoming gates and up to the library alcove he claimed for himself, where he can cloak himself in familiarity, solitude, and words on yellowing pages. 

The party splits at the courtyard and Dorian goes to the Great Hall immediately. No one stops him, no one tries to have a word with him about the Inquisitor’s latest excursion to the Hinterlands. The official story is that Trevelyan had gone to investigate a Carta operation, which is partially true. He is well prepared to serenade the curious with the gory details of how they crushed the darkspawn crawling through the abandoned dwarven thaig, should they ask.

No one does. That’s just fine with him.

His pack and staff lean against a bookcase. He ignores the dried mud on his boots, the traces of dirt and green under his fingernails. He tries for some light reading, then some dense tomes on outdated magical theory, and then resorts to staring out the window at the rest of Skyhold, eyes eventually settling on the tavern and its promise of strong drink. Thoughts crawl into the blank spaces, dredging up the painful memories that chased him across half of Thedas.

He could have tried harder to see his father’s attempt at reconciliation for what it was. That Magister Halward traveled so far south to talk to his estranged son said more than most people here would ever realize. He should have done what Trevelyan initially suggested and listened to what his father had to say. But time and distance had done nothing to lessen the pain and rage, the gaping hole where his love for his father and his family used to be. If not for Trevelyan’s presence, he might have set fire to the whole building and brought the burning wreckage down on House Pavus.

Instead, he exposed himself to them both, the pathetically broken man behind the brilliant Tevinter mage. 

“Are you all right?”

Trevelyan’s voice shatters the fog in his head. Dorian looks at him, realizes that the man had exchanged armor for clean clothes while he hadn’t bothered to find his quarters. He resists the urge to look down at the dirt under his fingernails, the grass stains on his robes. There’s a joke, a smart remark to be made somewhere, but he’s too tired to try.

“No, not really,” is what he decides to say. 

And then the words come tumbling out, gratitude and shame that the Inquisitor got him all the way to Redcliffe's tavern only to see that - that whole display, a noble family falling apart because their lone son and heir refused to play along. What Trevelyan keeps saying in response shakes him to the core and leaves him hoping desperately that he’s not reading this wrong.

People mill about in the library, mages and researchers and Leliana’s spies. They could all see, if they so choose, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care when Trevelyan’s lips press against his and large hard hands cradle his face. 

This is almost better than drinking the night away. Almost.

He does, much later in the privacy of his quarters. He manages not to dream of Tevinter this time; instead he dreams of walking long miles through the green Hinterlands and the dreary dank of the Fallow Mire with Trevelyan. 

It is an infinitely better dream.

* * *

“I like this side of you,” Fiona says, interrupting his rather gleeful story about the downfall of a magister he only met once and immediately despised. 

Dorian lowers his hands, thrown by her words. 

“Ah, so the altus can be flummoxed into silence,” the former Grand Enchanter continues, smiling knowingly. “Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me.”

“I should hope,” he says with a sniff. “I have a reputation to keep.”

She chuckles. “I won’t say a word, Pavus-”

“Dorian. Just call me Dorian, if we’re to spend the lull making idle chat about our respective past lives. As I was saying, we were all relieved when Danarius finally left for Kirkwall, even the ones that… supported his experiments-”

“Grand Enchanter. Dorian.”

Dorian turns to Trevelyan, who’s holding little slips of paper in his hand. He must have come down from the rookery. “Visited those blasted feathered nuisances again?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Trevelyan says cheerfully.

“Inquisitor,” Fiona says with a short bow. “Please, just call me Fiona.”

“If you insist. How are you and the mages faring?”

“Other than a few near things with some of the former templars here, we are doing very well. Thank you for asking.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Trevelyan says, flashing that smile of his. He turns to Dorian. “Leliana finally got word from Harding out in Emprise du Lion. There’s a good chance we’re leaving in a few hours. Be ready.”

“Always an adventure with you around,” Dorian remarks. “Just say the word.”

His heart stutters when Trevelyan leans in and kisses him, a soft searing touch that warms him to the core. Trevelyan smiles at him with bright grey eyes, nods to Fiona again and then turns and hops over the railing.

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” Solas’s outraged voice floats up.

Dorian can’t hide his laughter as Trevelyan apologizes profusely and offers to help pick up whatever he knocked off the elf’s desk.

“And people were worried that _you’d_ be the terrible influence,” Fiona says. 

“Did they now?” Dorian asks sharply.

“You needn’t concern yourself,” she replies. “All talk. The Inquisitor is a force of nature and they haven’t crossed his path yet.”

A door opens and he sees Mother Giselle’s distinctive red and white robes moving through the library floor. He thinks about the letter Trevelyan showed him and what she tried to hide from him.

“Excuse me. I need to go see Mother Giselle about a matter.”


End file.
